


Mage's Play

by MinionRipley



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bondage, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Magic, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Roleplay, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinionRipley/pseuds/MinionRipley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Templar/apostate roleplay, but this time the templar is at the mage's mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mage's Play

**Author's Note:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Surana/Alistair pairing, roleplay, bondage, fem dom, magic, oral, dub-con (sort of), abuse of Transfigurations 12.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8033.html?thread=37243489#t37243489).
> 
> Posted on the DA kink meme on 9/26/2012. Posted again to FF.net with some minor edits on 8/22/2013. Transferred here on 1/12/2015.

It is silk that covers the templar’s eyes, the length of it wrapped around his head and tied into a knot at the back. He does not recognize it as such immediately, still dazed from the sleep spell he was under. But the smooth texture of the fabric against his eyelids and cheeks does not leave it a mystery for long. He turns and twists his head, trying to dislodge it, and finally reaches with his hands to simply remove it.

And that is when he discovers he is restrained.

Bands of more silk encompass his forearms, though it becomes apparent to him a moment later as he tries to pull his hands free that they are not there to bind him but rather to protect. Rope, firmly tied, encircles his wrists over the lengths of silk. They stretch his arms back around what seems to be the thick trunk of a tree, allowing enough slack to sit up but not much else. While it is clear his armor has been removed, he is glad to find his shirt still on him to protect his skin from the coarse bark. And, even more fortuitously, he finds his legs unhindered in any way. His boots are missing and his feet cold in the autumn air, but he at least still has his pants.

That has to count for something, right?

He tugs at his bindings, testing their strength. Even through the cushion of the fabric, he can feel their fraying edge. Old and weathered, then. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it’s not like a runaway mage could simply pop into a store for new equipment.

But it does give him a sliver of optimism. If he can wrench himself free, before his captor returns, he might yet be able to escape, run to a village, and send word to the nearest templar outpost of what has transpired. Perhaps he could even return with reinforcements to rescue the other templars that had come with him. If they still live.

However, he finds with dismay that the rope holds fast and unyielding. He tries to stand in search of some other way out, but the tree’s bark catches on his clothes, holding him in place, and he groans.

Perhaps someone will come and find him instead? He can only hope.

Then he hears the crunch of fallen leaves, and he realizes someone already has.

But he has a feeling it’s not anyone good.

“Templar,” a feminine voice says, high and lilting. “So glad to see you’re finally awake.”

It is a voice he easily recognizes, as it is the same one he’d heard only a second before his troop was besieged by magic and he was knocked out. “Apostate,” he snarls. “What have you done with the others?”

“Others?” she says, confused. But then she remembers with a snicker. “Oh, you must mean your fellow templars. Don’t worry your pretty little head. They’ve been well taken care of.”

He scowls and holds his chin imperiously high, or at least as high a person in his position can. “You won’t get away with this, you know. One way or another, more will come, and you will be brought back to the Circle, or else you’ll be killed trying. I’ll give you one last chance to turn yourself in peacefully-”

But she just laughs. “Excuse me?” she says. “I believe you’re the one tied up here, not me!”

He slumps back against the tree with a grumble. So much for bravado. “Let me go, please?”

“No.”

“But I said please!”

“Still no,” she says. He hears her come closer, her feet sliding through the grass in a whisper. “However…”

“However… what?” he asks.

A warm fingertip traces the curve of his jaw. “I might be open to _other_ forms of persuasion,” she croons.

“Other forms of…” He swallows audibly when he realizes what she means. “Oh, Maker.”

“It’s just the two of us here. No one besides us has to know,” she says with a throaty chuckle. “It can be our little secret.”

He frowns and tugs at his bindings again. “Void take you! I will not be tempted like this, mage. I am not your plaything!”

“I beg to differ.” With deft fingers, she unlaces the collar of his shirt and spreads it open as far as it will go. The cool air and the brush of her hands send goose-bumps prickling along his skin. “Strain and pull as much as you like, templar. We’ll see how long you keep protesting.”

Then he feels her lips upon his neck, nipping at the curves of muscles and tendons, darting up to briefly suck on an earlobe. He groans and tries to move away, but there’s nowhere to go, tied up as he is. Small, hot flashes of pleasure ripple through him, pooling in his groin, but he ignores them. He pushes them down and out of his mind as he has been taught to do.

“Oh Maker, hear my cry,” he murmurs to himself. “Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

The apostate snickers. “Oh, you’ll be warm soon enough.”

With that, she draws a burning line with a single fingertip down the center of his shirt, neatly searing the fabric in two while stopping short of singeing his abdomen. He sucks in a breath at the sudden heat, only to let it out in a soft moan when she pushes the remains of the garment aside and runs her hands along his chest and sides. The wet glide of her tongue follows shortly after in a lazy, winding path.

“Oh Creator, s-see me kneel,” he rasps, twisting and shuddering under the mage’s touch. “For I walk only wh-where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the w-words You place in my throat.”

“I’ll make you sing, all right,” the mage murmurs.

She draws back to sharply pinch a nipple between her thumb and forefinger, making him helplessly gasp and jerk in response. Then, without warning, her fingers turn ice-cold, and he cries out in shock. The bud of flesh between her fingers hardens instantly, almost painfully so, from the change in temperature, and he grits his teeth against the sharp sensation. She circles it with the pad of her thumb, over and over again, until it’s as stiff as a pebble against her touch.

Blast! How in Andraste’s name could the mage know how to tease him so well?

“My C-Creator, judge me whole,” he whimpers but then abruptly stops, uncertain. Has he missed a verse? He feels he has, but in his increasingly hazy state of mind he can’t recall what it should have been. He continues anyway: “Find me well w-within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I b-be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

Just as suddenly, her fingers heat up once more, and they feel like a furnace against his tender skin. He moans when she uses them to soothe the chill of her prior touch away and torment him further at the same time. He can feel his cock swelling against his will, and he squirms, trying to hide the growing bulge in his pants. With a blush, he realizes that he can no longer remember what the next verse is, nor even the rest of the canticle.

“I have to be honest, I thought you and your men would put up more of a fight,” the mage drawls, almost conversationally. “I suppose you got comfortable, didn’t you? Hunting those Circle apprentices made you soft and weak.” She tweaks his once-cold nipple with her hot fingers, and she giggles when he writhes and groans. “But I’m not complaining. This is turning out to be quite fun!”

He scowls at her. “You haven’t won yet, apostate. Just wait until I get free. Then I’ll-”

But he forgets what he was going to say with a broken gasp when she brings a freezing hand up to his other nipple, beginning the whole process anew. Instead, he can only moan and uselessly strain against his bindings as she tortures him further.

By the time both of her hands are hot against his chest, he is crying out with abandon and arching his back for more. He hates himself for his weakness, but, damn it, if she would only move further down at last – he’s hard and throbbing and he thinks he may actually start to beg if she doesn’t here soon.

“My, my, how quickly the proud templar breaks,” the mage teases, leaning down to lap at a nipple for a short moment. “Ready to admit defeat?”

“Nnngh. Just…” He groans when she closes her lips around the nub and sucks. “Just get on w-with it, mage.”

He whimpers when she releases the bit of flesh and leans back, leaving him aching and wanting. “Hmm. I don’t know if I should; that didn’t sound much like admitting defeat,” she says with false reticence. “Maybe I should just leave you here instead. I’ll at least get a nice head-start from the rest of your kind.”

Then he hears her stand and walk away, fallen leaves cracking underneath her feet, and he’s struck by the sudden fear that she very well might. He twists and struggles against his restraints, but yet again they do not give in the least.

“No! Wait!” he shouts.

She stops. “Yes, templar?”

He falls back against the tree, panting in exertion. In his effort, he’s managed to shift the band of silk around his eyes a little, enough to see the mage’s slim ankles as she turns around to face him. “Please, I… I surrender,” he finally confesses. “Please, don’t go. I want you. So badly.”

She laughs, and he watches as she strides over and kneels down in front of him, revealing shapely calves, knees, thighs, and… and…

‘Sweet Andraste, she’s naked!’ he realizes with a sharp gasp.

He swallows as she lays her hands upon his knees and then slowly runs them up his legs. “That, I can believe,” she purrs. Her fingers alight upon the ties of his pants, underneath which his aching manhood pulses and strains. As she begins to draw the knots apart, it leaps in anticipation, and she giggles again. “Excited, are you?”

But he can’t say anything in response, not when she finally undoes the last of the straps, pushes his pants and smallclothes down, and reaches inside to free his member from its confines. She takes it in hand and strokes it several times from base to tip, squeezing it _just right_ , and he digs his heels into the ground and bucks up into her hand with a deep moan.

Only for her to release him and draw back yet again.

“Please!” he cries. “Maker’s breath, _please_. You’re killing me here!”

She stands back up, and he worries she’ll walk away and abandon him after all. But she doesn’t – instead, she steadies herself, placing one foot on either side of his hips, and grasps him by the hair on his head. “You say you want me, templar,” she murmurs. “Why don’t you show me how much?”

At first he doesn’t understand, but as she gently tugs his head forward and the thick aroma of her arousal hits his nose, he groans in lust at the mere thought of it: Tied up and powerless, at the mercy of a mage, forced to service her in the most carnal of ways… He shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t even _think_ of wanting it, but, oh, by the Flames, does he ever.

Well, since he’s obviously not much of a good templar, he can at least be a bad one, right?

He whimpers, “Yes. Please, yes.”

She tugs at his hair again, and another bolt of desire shoots straight down to his throbbing cock. “Come on,” she urges. “Get on with it.”

Without hesitation, he does, letting her guide him towards her hips until his mouth is pressed against her nether region. He runs his tongue along her wet slit several times, back and forth, tasting her, until she moans and tightens her grip on his hair. Then he pushes the slick muscle inside, seeking her entrance and running his tongue around it in tight, teasing circles, never giving her quite what she wants. He pulls back to gently nibble and suck on the folds of her womanhood, and he smirks when he hears her give a frustrated groan in turn.

‘A little tit for tat, eh, mage?’ he thinks with a silent laugh to himself.

But the situation loses all sense of humor when she hisses, “Keep that up, templar, and I _will_ leave you here.”

At that he finally drops all pretense of payback and draws his tongue further up her nether lips, searching for… Ah, yes, there! He wraps his lips around the small, swollen bundle of nerves hidden within her folds and suckles on it, pulling back every so often to sweep his tongue across and around it. She cries out, rocking her hips against his face and telling him not to stop.

And he doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking and licking her nub until, with a long, gasping wail, she stiffens against him and comes. He continues lapping at her, each caress bringing forth a stuttering moan from her lips and sending a tremble of arousal through his own frame, until she finally releases him and shakily pushes away.

“Oh, by the Fade,” she groans, leaning against the tree for support. “That was… Wow.”

He slides his tongue over his lips, collecting any lingering traces of her slick arousal, and grins. “Do I get a reward for a job well done?” he asks with a low chuckle.

“Uhn. Yes. Just, ah, one moment,” she says and then, with a whimper, returns to kneeling in front of him. “First, for your good behavior, I’ll give you your sight back.”

She reaches up and behind his head for the knot of silk and, after several unsteady tugs, finally manages to undo it. The length of fabric falls down his face, pooling around his neck and shoulders.

At last, he can see his captor and tormentor, and, Maker, what a sight she is: Eyes as green as a summer-kissed meadow, lips the color of roses, and a fine-featured face framed by dark tresses that fall like a waterfall all the way down to the middle of her back. Her body is svelte, tight and fit, but with curves still in all of the right places. Her skin is the color of peaches and honey, hairless save for her locks, the delicate curves of her eyebrows, and the small gathering between her thighs. When he sees the pointed tips of her elven ears peeking through the curtain of her hair, the sudden, maddening desire to nip and suck on them sends another rush of heat right through him.

“Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” he whispers in awe.

She looks away with a blush and smile, but only for a moment. When she turns to look at him again, the bashful gentleness of her lips has disappeared, replaced by the sharpness of dominance and desire. “You won’t fool me with flattery, templar,” she says. “You’re not leaving until I’m done with you. I haven’t given you your other _reward_ yet.”

“Oh, trust me,” he says with a wry grin, “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere now.”

She shakes her head with a smile. “Really, are all you templars this secretly kinky?”

“N-No, just me,” he says, gasping on his words when she reaches down to take hold of his erection.

She laughs. “Well then, aren’t I lucky to have gotten you!”

Then she lines up his member and pushes down, and then neither of them can say anything more as he slides inside. She’s wet, hot, and tight around him, and he whimpers and strains with the effort to not thrust up into her and instead let her set her own pace.

And, oh, Maker, what an effort it is. She starts out slow, easing herself up and down his length as she adjusts to his size. It seems like an eternity of the most wonderful torture to him before she finally relaxes and speeds up, bracing her hands on his shoulders for support. With each slap of her hips against his, her breasts, though small, jiggle enticingly, and his mouth waters at the thought of sucking on their pebbled tips. When he leans forward to catch one with his tongue as she rises back up, she moans and tightens around him briefly. And so he does it again and again, groaning as she squirms and squeezes him within her ever hotter sheath.

Before long, they’re sliding and grinding against each other, unaware of anything except each other and their own pleasure. He wants to beg her to release him, so he can hold her and tease her and pleasure her even more, but that would mean stopping while she did so, and he can’t bear the idea. So he returns her thrust for thrust, rolling his head back against the tree trunk with a deep moan and looking at her delicious, bouncing form through hooded eyes.

Then she reaches down with a hand to stroke her clit, and any control he may have still clung to flies apart as she closes around him like a slick vice. With a cry, he arches his back and thrusts up into her, and he continues doing so, unable to help himself any longer, until he’s moving so hard and fast that she can only hang on and moan in pleasure with each stroke.

He tries his best to delay his end as long as he can, to think unsexy thoughts like the Knight-Commander taking a bath or the Grand Cleric lecturing him on the importance of clean underwear, but he knows it’s near. He can feel his balls drawing up, the pressure of orgasm mounting in his groin, and he knows he’ll go mad if he attempts to stave it off for much longer. A moment more, he tells himself. Only a moment more, enough to…

And then, with one further roll and push of his hips, she screams and comes undone, her sheath clenching and rippling around him tighter than anything before. Not more than a few seconds later, the pleasure of it overwhelms him, and he follows after, shouting, “Oh, _Neria_ – love you!” as he wildly shudders and bucks up into her in orgasm.

They continue to move against each other, prolonging the sensations with shaky groans and whimpers, for several moments. Then, with one final shared moan, they stop and slump to the ground, he falling against the tree and she falling against him.

They rest like that for some long minutes, breathing deeply and soaking in the afterglow. Then, at last, the mage sits up and slides herself off of the templar with a sigh.

She stands up and walks to the far side of the tree, and there she unties the knots of the rope. With a groan, he brings his arms back in front of him and removes the rope and silk both. She walks over and sits down next to him, and she wordlessly reaches up and begins to knead the soreness from his shoulders and arms.

“Well, that was nice,” he murmurs, moaning softly when her hands turn warm and soothing with healing magic.

“Just ‘nice’?” she replies, arching an eyebrow at him. “Sounded like you were enjoying yourself a bit more than that, Alistair.”

“All right, all right,” he says with a chuckle. “It was amazing. Fantastic. Wonderful.” But he suddenly frowns. “Did you have to go and ruin my shirt, though?”

She gives a shy giggle and flushes. “I, uh, guess I got a little into it, too. My bad.” Then, with a smirk, she pokes him in the side and adds, “Besides which, you broke character.”

He rubs the top of his head, blushing a little at the memory. “I always told you I’d have made a terrible templar.”

She laughs and says, “Well, I for one am very glad of that.” Then, with a smile, she gets to her knees and wraps her arms around his shoulders. “And I love you, too, Alistair. Always.”

He returns her smile with one of his own. “Always,” he echoes.

Then he leans down, and the two lovers kiss.


End file.
